A Head for Poisoning (2 page)

“The physician is right,” said Adrian in a low voice to Enide. “Lady Pernel did not exactly lead a blameless life, and she may well benefit from breathing her last on sacred ground.”

“Really, Father!” exclaimed Sir Olivier, overhearing. “You slander my sister-in-law's good name with such assertions.”

“What good name?” muttered Tom Ingram to the assembled villagers. “She was a devil! God took her because she had no right to set her wicked feet in His holy place!”

There were murmurs of agreement from the watching crowd, and even Pernel's two sisters-in-law seemed disinclined to argue with the sentiment. Sir Olivier spluttered with indignation, but Joan placed a restraining hand on his arm, and he said nothing more. Deciding not to wait for the servants to bring a bier, Malger lifted the body from the ground, and began to carry it to the castle. Enide, Olivier, and Joan followed in silence, and the villagers watched them go.

“I would exorcise this graveyard if I were you, Father,” said Tom Ingram sagely. “The Devil has just entered it to snatch away his own!”

2
AUGUST
1100

NEW FOREST, ENGLAND

The men walked into the forest clearing, and looked around them appraisingly. The glade was a long, grassy expanse of bog and meadow fringed on all sides by a thick wall of trees. The King nodded his approval to the chief huntsman, and the man slipped away to indicate to the beaters that the hunt was to begin. The King and his companions separated, each searching for the best vantage point from which he would be able to shoot his arrows at the animals that would soon be driven towards him. The King selected a spot in the woods to the east, while his companions moved towards the marshy area in the south. Walter Tirel, Count of Poix and friend of the monarch, was surprised by the King's choice: the setting sun was slanting into the clearing, and he would be squinting into it as he took aim.

But the King's position was no business of his, so Tirel eased himself back into the scrubby bushes at the edge of the marsh and waited. After a while, the noise of the beaters began—yells and whistles and the crackle of sticks against undergrowth as men swept through the forest in a great arc, driving deer, hares, and birds towards the men who waited. Tirel inched farther back, not wanting the animals to catch sight of his red tunic and run away from him. He sighed, and turned his face to the warmth of the fading sun. It was pleasant to be out in the forest after a day of doing nothing indoors. The ancient trees were a brilliant green, shimmering in the heat of the late afternoon. Around him droned the buzz of marsh insects, audible even over the shouts of the beaters and the baying of excited dogs.

On the other side of the clearing, the King waited in eager anticipation, heart thumping with the excitement that hunting always brought to him. An arrow was already nocked in his bow, and wanted only to be drawn and aimed before it sped towards its quarry. He screwed up his eyes against the sun, and scanned the bank of trees to his right as the sounds of the beaters drew nearer. At any moment now, the beasts of the forest would begin to emerge. A few birds would come first, flapping the air in panic, feathers spiralling downwards as they flew to safety. But the King was not interested in birds. He had a household to feed, and nothing short of a stag would suffice.

A sudden frantic rustling in a tree nearby told him that a pheasant had taken flight. Not long now. The howling of the dogs was close, and he thought he could glimpse one of the beaters off to the right. And then a deer burst out of the trees. The King's fingers tightened on the bow, and he began to draw the string back. He took his eyes off the deer for an instant, just long enough to see Tirel acknowledge that the deer was his. Meanwhile, a second stag had broken through the forest into the clearing. Tirel would get it, the King thought with confidence; the Count of Poix was, after all, one of the best shots at court.

The King's arrow sped towards the fleeing deer, and he immediately began to fumble for another quarrel. He swore to himself as the animal changed direction suddenly, and his arrow fell harmlessly to one side. He ran forward a few paces, and dropped to one knee to fire again. The sun was slanting directly into his eyes, making it difficult to see, let alone aim. Beyond the deer, the King had a fleeting impression of a man, silhouetted against the red-gold light, but then his whole attention was taken by the approaching deer.

The second arrow was never loosed. Startled, the King felt something hit him in the chest. What was it? A stone kicked up by the terrified stag? Then he found he could not breathe, and the strength ebbed suddenly from his legs. He pitched forward, his world darkening as he did so. As he toppled, he felt something drive farther into his chest, and then nothing.

The deer bolted across the clearing and disappeared into the thicket of trees on the other side. Tirel's stag, bleeding from a slight graze across its back, followed. After the animals had gone, the beaters emerged into the glade, moving cautiously, because it would not be the first time that one of them had been mistaken for game and shot in the thrill of the chase. But there was no one to be seen. Puzzled, they inched forward, calling out halfheartedly for the courtly hunters, and taking aimless swipes at the long grass with their sticks. The chief huntsman pushed past them and strode towards a flutter of yellow that he glimpsed to one side. He stopped short, and turned to the bewildered beaters, his face suddenly bloodless with shock.

“The King!” he whispered, aghast. “The King is dead!”

There were bemused glances and exclamations of disbelief, and then the other nobles in the royal hunting party began to gather, peering down at the huddled corpse of the King that lay sprawled under an oak tree. For shocked moments, there was nothing but a chaotic babble of voices, asking questions that no one could answer, and looking from one to the other with a mixture of fear and horror. Then the sound of horses” hooves caught their attention.

“That is Tirel!” cried one, pointing to where a lone horseman thundered down one of the forest tracks away from them.

“And that is Prince Henry!” exclaimed another, pointing to where the King's younger brother and two of his closest companions galloped in the opposite direction.

“But his brother lies dead!” whispered Robert fitz-Hamon, the King's oldest and most trusted friend, appalled. “How can he just abandon the body like that?”

No one answered, and all looked down at the lifeless corpse in the grass. The forest was silent and still, and the last golden rays of the sun faded and dulled across the forest clearing and the dead King.

JANUARY
1101

WELSH BORDERS

S
ir Geoffrey Mappestone glanced around uneasily, and wondered whether he had been wise to trust the directions of his sergeant, Will Helbye, over his own vague recollections of the area. The misty countryside was silent except for the soft thud of horses” hooves on the frozen turf and the occasional clink of metal from the harnesses. He cast Helbye a doubtful look, and peered through the fog in a vain attempt to locate some familiar landmark that would reassure him he was still on English soil, and had not wandered inadvertently into the hostile territories governed by the Welsh princes.

“Are you sure your sergeant knows what he is doing?” demanded Sir Aumary de Breteuil, spurring his splendid destrier forward so that he could ride abreast of Geoffrey. “The King will not be pleased if he hears you have led me astray.”

“I did not ask you to travel with us,” said Geoffrey, finally nettled into irritability by the other knight's continual complaints. “If your messages to the King are so vital, why did he not send an escort for you from Portsmouth, instead of leaving you to fend for yourself?”

Aumary shot him an unpleasant look. “Secret business of state,” he said pompously. “I was directed to make my appearance at the castle in Chepstow as unobtrusively as possible, in order to mask the momentous nature of the writs I carry.”

Not for the first time on their six-day journey from the coast, Sir Aumary patted the small leather pouch that was tucked inside his surcoat, a self-important smile on his face.

“You have done an admirable job,” said Geoffrey dryly, taking in the other knight's handsome war-horse, exquisite cloak, and gleaming chain-mail. “No one would ever guess you are a knight of some wealth and standing.”

“Quite so,” said Aumary smugly, oblivious to the irony in Geoffrey's tone. “And it has not been easy, I can tell you—I have had no servants to care for my needs, and I have been forced to ride in the company of Holy Land ruffians.” He looked disparagingly at Helbye and the two men-at-arms behind him who, like Geoffrey, wore the cross on their armour that marked them as Crusaders.

“I do hope you are not referring to me,” said Geoffrey mildly.

He lifted his shield from where it lay over the pommel of his saddle, and slid his mailed arm through its straps. Sir Aumary was right to be apprehensive about the area, and Geoffrey was considering turning around and riding back the way they had come.

“Of course not!” said Aumary quickly, mistaking Geoffrey's precautionary action as a threat.

In contrast to Aumary's immaculate appearance, Geoffrey was clad in a hard-wearing, functional surcoat, stained with travel and with its Crusader's cross emblazoned on the back. His chain-mail was stronger, heavier, and had seen considerably more use than Aumary's, while his broadsword, Aumary knew, had edges that could slice as easily through armour as through butter. Aumary had no intention of fighting the younger knight when he knew he would lose. He turned to address Helbye, to remove himself from a conversation that was becoming uncomfortable.

“Where are we? How much farther is it to Goodrich Castle?”

“We are on the correct road,” insisted Helbye, growing weary of Aumary's constant questioning. “We turned right at Penncreic; straight would have taken us to Lann Martin in Wales.” He shuddered. “And the Lord knows we do not want to be there!”

Geoffrey could not agree more, and continued to scan the dense, still forest for something he might recognise. Surely, he thought, he could not have forgotten so much about his home during his twenty-year absence? The silence made him uneasy: he did not recall the lands around his father's manor ever being quite so soundless, even during the winter. His wariness began to transmit itself to Robin Barlow and Mark Ingram, his men-at-arms, and Geoffrey saw them draw their daggers. Trotting at the side of his horse, Geoffrey's dog growled deep in its throat, as if it could sense something amiss.

Suddenly, the silence was rent by an ungodly howl, and it was only the backwards start of his horse that saved Geoffrey from the arrow that hissed past his face. His raised shield protected him from the next one, deflecting it harmlessly to the ground. Behind him, Sir Aumary fought to control his own destrier, since, for all its splendid looks, it was a poorly trained beast and was whinnying and bucking in alarm at the speed of the attack. Geoffrey hauled his heavy broadsword from his belt, and wrenched his horse's head round, yelling to his men to retreat the way they had come. Barlow blocked his way, his mount insane with terror and pain from an arrow that protruded from its neck.

“Go back!” shouted Geoffrey to Aumary, Helbye, and Ingram, thinking that they might yet escape the ambush, even if he and Barlow could not. Then Geoffrey's attention was away from the bewildered soldiers, and he was fighting for his own life. Men darted from the forest, rising from where they had been crouching behind tree-trunks, or lying under piles of leaves. Geoffrey did not take the time to count them, but began to strike out, wielding his sword with one hand, and using his shield to fend off attacks with the other.

The air rang with yelling and howling, and dirty hands clawed and grabbed at Geoffrey's legs and reins, trying to drag him from his mount. He clung tightly with his knees, knowing that to fall might mean his death. A Norman knight on horseback was a formidable force, but on foot he was slow and encumbered by the heavy chain-mail that protected him.

He smashed the hilt of his sword into the shoulder of the man who was attempting to hack through the straps of his saddle with a knife, and kicked another, catching him a hefty blow on the chin that sent him reeling. Seeing their comrades down, the ambushers backed away, knowing that they were helpless against the superior fighting skills of a fully armed Norman warrior. Instead they formed a circle around him, muttering menacingly and brandishing their motley assortment of weapons.

Given a moment to observe them, Geoffrey saw that they were not hardened outlaws at all, but just villagers, nervously clutching a bizarre arsenal of ancient swords and crudely fashioned staves in a way that suggested they were not familiar with their use. He seized his opportunity, and spurred his horse forward, sending them scattering before him to escape the thundering hooves.